


the simple life

by novoaa1



Series: the misadventures of yelena danvers [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awesome Carol Danvers, BAMF Natasha Romanov, F/F, Humor, Parent Carol Danvers, Parent Natasha Romanov, also carol does some substantial damage to school property, cause she keeps punching boys and wreaking havoc, nat and carol scare the bejesus out of the poor principal, sdfjlsdkfjlsdkfjslkj, their kid is a disciplinary case, they have a kid too, they're married, who needs to resign immediately because oh my goD, you know how it goes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 14:10:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19769863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: "Principal David Woodard was a simple man—he liked his coffee black, listened almost exclusively to Classical music (or Baroque, if he was feeling particularly blue), and most of all, he coveted the instances upon which he could get through an entire school day without a single disciplinary report crossing his desk.(Understandably, those occurrences were rather rare.)But, this? He’s not quite sure how he’s meant to handle this—Yelena Danvers, blonde-haired brown-eyed 6th grader; frequent flyer in both Nurse Karen’s humble cubicle and, predictably, his own office. She’s also something of a legend on the Guidance Counselor’s end of the campus, if what he’s been told by multiple forthright students (otherwise known as narcs) and staff members is to be believed. "Or: Natasha and Carol are married with a kid, and Principal David Woodard is not being paid nearly enough to put up with the sheer insanity that inevitably follows.





	the simple life

**Author's Note:**

> sldfksjdflksjdlk really random idea that i had because i think its funny and um
> 
> yep, also i haven't seen any like natasha x carol married fics like where they're already wives?? so i added that too cause i love them

Principal David Woodard was a simple man—he liked his coffee black, listened almost exclusively to Classical music (or Baroque, if he was feeling particularly blue), and most of all, he coveted the instances upon which he could get through an entire school day without a single disciplinary report crossing his desk. 

(Understandably, those occurrences were rather rare.)

As a public educator of elementary-to-middle-school-aged individuals, there’s a lot he’s forced to put up with—countless instances of he-said-she-said bullying on the playground, the younger kids’ inevitable discovery of ‘bad words’ (they still haven’t quite recovered from last week, when Mike “Mikey" Jones had commandeered the Vice Principal's intercom and utilized his 10 seconds of fleeting sovereignty to scream “Fuck the police!” on a constant loop throughout the entire school until he was eventually apprehended by their friendly neighborhood security guard José), and, as of quite recently, the widespread phenomenon of ‘vaping.’

But, this? He’s not quite sure how he’s meant to handle this—Yelena Danvers, blonde-haired brown-eyed 6th grader; frequent flyer in both Nurse Karen’s humble cubicle and, predictably, his own office. She’s also something of a legend on the Guidance Counselor’s end of the campus, if what he’s been told by multiple forthright students (otherwise known as narcs) and staff members is to be believed. 

He’s never had the pleasure of holding a more than 10-minute-long conversation or so with the Danvers girl in question; honestly, he had sincerely been hoping that it would stay that way.

(She’d once pointed at his coffee-bean-brown skin and asked him very seriously if she could get skin like his, because she thought it was pretty. 

He can’t even remember for the life of him how he responded to that.) 

It’s not that the 10-year-old girl was unpleasant to be around, either—it’s just, she punched an upper-grade boy at least once every other week (if not more), she once showed up to school with a Makarov pistol (unloaded, thank _God_ ) tucked neatly inside her pencil case (which, according to her, belonged to her Mommy, who was an actual real-life _superhero_ ), and, on more than one isolated occasion, had confidently informed her classmates in no uncertain terms that her _other_ Mama was currently off on Mars or Knowhere (yes, ‘Knowhere' with a ‘K’), and that she would return to C-53 (wherever _that_ was) once she ripped all the Kree’s heads off and made them bleed blue. 

And, truly, Principal Woodard would like to think he’s a reasonable man—he understands very well that an over-active imagination is as much a part of growing up as zits and acne, and, really, if you look beyond the whole ‘violence’ and ‘guns’ and ‘Kree creatures who bleed blue’ thing, Yelena Danvers is, by all accounts, a rather pleasant young girl to be around. 

But, well… like with most things, it’s easier said than done. 

And now (3:44pm), Principal Woodard is here—tapping his foot nervously behind his desk, fiddling with the black Santa tie his husband had given him last Christmas, trying not to devolve into a state of utter panic whilst he waits patiently to greet the infamous parents of Yelena Danvers, one Ms. (Mrs.?) Romanoff and Ms. (Mrs.?) Carol Danvers, according to the girl's (extensive) file. 

Yelena Danvers, for her part, is currently sitting in Extended Day Care with all the other kids whose parents can’t always be there by 3:15pm to collect their children—and, if the universe has even a modicum of sympathy for the truly strange things that have happened around that child (thereby forcing Principal Woodard to deal with the charred and burning aftermath), she’s playing a peaceful game of Chinese Checkers with her newfound friends in Mrs. Decker’s room, or maybe writing out a cutesy and thorough apology on lined paper for throwing 7th-grader Brandon Davis clear across the playground during lunchtime. 

(A man can certainly dream.)

The analog clock upon the wall ticks to 3:45 exactly, and not a second later, there’s a sharp knock on the door. 

_Christ_ , Principal Woodard thinks, clearing his throat and straightening his black-Santa-emblazoned tie with shaking hands, cold sweat beading at his forehead. _You can do this_.

“Come in!” he calls in what he prays is a somewhat confident tone (though the way his voice cracks on the final syllable is giving him vivid flashbacks to his decidedly late encounter with puberty at the tender age of 15). 

Instantly, the door glides swiftly open (since when does his door _glide?_ ), and a slim figure stalks their way in—she’s intimidating, for sure, even if she looks to be around 5’4” at most, with impossibly-green catlike eyes and sleek pin-straight red hair that falls to her shoulders; oh, and this, too—she’s wearing a catsuit. 

Like, a full-on Catwoman skin-tight leather get-up—she’s also insanely gorgeous, like, magazine-model gorgeous, and if David weren’t so unquestionably _gay_ , he’s sure he’d be faced with a very uncomfortable drooling situation right about now.

As it is, it’s difficult to gather himself—because this woman has a downright commanding presence about her, the perfect balance between beautiful and deadly, and when she approaches him with an outstretched hand and an almost friendly smile, he’s sure he’s entered a parallel dimension. 

“You must be Principal Woodard,” she greets warmly (though there’s a clever glint behind her sharp green eyes that has David squirming slightly in his seat)—he barely manages to take her hand in a passably firm grip, giving her a jerky nod and what he hopes is a smile that doesn’t make him look like a serial killer. “I’m Natasha Romanoff.”

… _Wow_. 

He clears his throat, struggling to gather himself as she sinks gracefully into one of two cushioned chairs set out before his desk, the woman— _Ms. Romanoff_ , he corrects—fixing him with a gaze that’s somehow both powerfully penetrating and vaguely terrifying all at once. 

“It’s, um… It’s nice to meet you,” he stutters out, and resists the urge to smack himself for his apparent (and rather sudden) inability to speak, fiddling with Yelena Danvers’ thick file on his desk to calm his nerves. “Will, um—Will Ms. Danvers be joining us as well?”

Ms. Romanoff’s lips quirk into something of a smirk, and David gulps. 

“ _Mrs_. Danvers,” she corrects, sounding indubitably amused, “should be here any minute.”

“R-Right!” David squeaks, letting out an uncomfortable laugh under Ms. Romanoff’s unyielding stare. “And, I... I don’t mean to assume, but does that mean that I should address you as ‘Mrs.’ as well?”

Ms. (or Mrs.?) Romanoff’s smirk widens. “That’s correct, Principal Woodard.”

David shivers. “O-Okay, should we… Should we wait for your w-wife?”

Mrs. Romanoff shrugs, examining her perfectly-polished cuticles as if it’s of little consequence to her. “We can, if you’d like.”

“I, um—" David coughs awkwardly, beginning to fiddle with the thin gold wedding band upon his left hand—Mrs. Romanoff just stares. “O-Okay, we’ll just do… that."

Mrs. Romanoff hums, leaning back comfortably in her seat, even whilst David starts to feel itchy and hot, a sure sign of the chronic discomfort he’d phoned his doctor about just two nights earlier (he needs a glass of wine and an Advil, _stat_ ). 

“So,” Mrs. Romanoff drawls eventually, thereby breaking the charged silence between them. “How long have you been Principal here?”

David blinks—something about the way she asked the question, the knowing glint in her eye, makes him suspect she already knows the answer… but, that would be absurd, wouldn’t it? 

Yes, that would be absurd—God, he can’t wait to get home to his husband and listen to some calming Enrique Granados…. some of his Valses Poéticos, perhaps; yes, that should do the trick. 

It belatedly hits him that Mrs. Romanoff is still eyeing him with an expectant look in her eye (though it’s underlaid with undoubted amusement)—awkwardly clearing his throat, he squirms uncomfortably in his seat, trying to think… 

“It’s been… five years, I believe?”

Mrs. Romanoff’s grin widens, and David briefly glimpses a flash of perfectly straight white teeth. “Six, if you count this one, no?”

David blinks owlishly. “I—Wha—"

_CRUNCH!_ A deafening metallic noise reverberates from somewhere off to the right— _the parking lots_ , David deduces after a moment rife with panic—and the sickening noise of metal crumpling, followed by a muffled _“Sorry!”_ … For what feels like the millionth time since meeting one Yelena Danvers, 6th grade student, David has the ever-persistent thought that he is most certainly not being paid nearly enough to put up with… whatever _this_ is. 

Vaguely, he hears Officer José’s panicked voice coming over the radio sitting upon his desk, the man's Cuban accent noticeably stronger in his panic; there’s not much that David can make out, shock still rendering him nearly paralyzed in his seat, but he thinks he hears “glowing rainbow meteor” and “alien invasion” and “la diabla,” which is more than enough to make him decidedly regretful of his foolishly optimistic decision to get out of bed this morning.

Pinching the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh, he gropes clumsily around his desk for the static-y device, only relaxing slightly when he’s switched the radio off and the room is again blanketed in (relative) silence. 

“What was that?” he questions, directed at no one in particular, exhaustion in his tone—but, Mrs. Romanoff, ever-so-helpful, speaks up anyways. 

“My wife,” she informs him proudly, her smile wide enough to dimple both cheeks, an excited glimmer in her ridiculously green eyes. 

David blanches. “I— _What?_ "

Mrs. Romanoff doesn’t offer up a explanation, just sinks smugly into her seat like she’s observing a particularly funny improvisational skit (or whatever it is this downright frightening woman does in her downtime)—and, a minute or two later, when a soot-streaked woman with shoulder-length blonde wavy hair and a disarming smile wearing a blue-and-red costume (which David thinks he’s seen depicted in those comic books his husband Tom hoards like a teenager) walks confidently into his office without bothering to knock, his jaw drops. 

“Hey, kids!” the woman greets cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to the open-mouthed look of absolute shock David is currently sporting as she bounds forward to offer her hand. (David, still entirely flabbergasted, can’t quite get himself to take it.) “I’m Carol,” she tells him, then drops her hand after a protracted moment in which David makes no move to grasp it—still, she takes it in stride, shooting David a charming grin before leaning to give Mrs. Romanoff a chaste kiss on the mouth and plopping herself unceremoniously into the empty seat beside her wife. 

The room is silent for a long time. 

“Oh!” Mrs. Danvers chimes in after a while, an apologetic look appearing upon her all-American features, wide brown eyes filled with disarming sincerity (and a hint of mirth). “I sort of had an accident with one of your school buses,” she mumbles, ruefully rubbing at the back of her neck. “But!” she blurts out in response to the horrified expression on David’s face. “There was no one in it! So, I’ll just bring you some recompense… does three million credits sound about right?” David just stares. “Wow, C-53 has definitely stepped up its budget in educational schools… okay, what about _four_ million? ‘Cause—"

“Carol, hon,” Mrs. Romanoff interjects, a bemused grin on her face as she rubs her wife’s suit-clad upper arm up and down in soothing motions. “They do dollars here, remember? We’ll write a check.”

Mrs. Danvers' eyes widen, and she turns back to David with a quasi-repentant smile. “Oh! Right, my bad… We’ll do that, Principal…” she trails off, squinting at the engraved nameplate sitting upon his desk. “Woo-Dard!”

Mrs. Romanoff snickers. “Woodard, darling.”

Mrs. Danvers rolls her eyes. “That’s what I said.”

“No, sweetie, it’s not.”

“Yeah, it is! This is just like that whole ‘Mar-Vell’ vs. ‘Marvel’ thing, and just like with that, babe, I _swear_ I’m righ—"

David clears his throat loudly, still in some form of residual shock from the most recent chain of events—but, he has a job to do, and a handsome man waiting for him at home (hopefully with a large glass of wine in tow); he can’t afford to waste any more time than he has on what is, admittedly, already turning out to be the most bizarre parental meeting he’s ever undergone.

“I’m, uh—I-I am glad you both could make it!” he says as evenly as he can manage, drawing upon years of experience doing this with countless different pairs of (normal) parents in the past. “Can I get you two anything? Water, coffee, tea?”

Mrs. Danvers wrinkles her nose, apparently affronted, while Mrs. Romanoff gives him a gracious smile. 

“No, we’re okay, Principal Woodard,” she assures him silkily, crossing one leg over the other in a languid (read: _hypnotizing_ ) motion. “Shall we talk about Yelena now?”

David resists the urge to heave a dramatic sigh of relief. 

“Yes!” he blurts enthusiastically (because _finally_ , they were getting somewhere), then winces. "I mean, um—Yes, that sounds perfect, Mrs. Romanoff.”

“Please,” she purrs, quirking a brow. “Call me Natasha.”

“Mhm!” Mrs. Danvers agrees smoothly, a self-assured grin on her face. “And call me Carol."

A strangled cough escapes David upon hearing that, and he’s inexplicably grateful that his dark skin tone doesn’t allow either woman to see the heated flush rising in his cheeks. 

“R-Right, okay, um, so… " he hesitates, his train of thought entirely forgotten. “Yelena!” he yelps before either woman can remind him (or derail the conversation any further). “R-Right, Yelena, so, um… Nice girl,” he finishes lamely, and really, he’s sure he could’ve smacked himself right then. 

Mrs. Danvers— _Carol_ just grins proudly, evidently impervious to his unfavorable bout of awkwardness.

“Right!” she agrees emphatically, turning smugly to a noticeably-less-excited Mrs. Romanoff. “Did’ya hear that, Nat? Did’ya? He called her a 'nice girl’! I—"

Mrs. Romanoff— _Natasha_ purses her lips as if holding back a chuckle. 

“I did, gorgeous,” she acquiesces, before turning back to face David with an expectant gaze. “So, I assume you’re to tell us why we’re here?”

“Right! I—right, yes, _that_.” Shaking his head to gather his thoughts, he opens the (rather thick) file, flipping until he’s found the most recent incident report, stamped '12:01pm’ earlier today. “So, it would seem, that, um… It would seem that she threw another child, one Brandon Davis, across the playground. It says here, too, that she… that she punched him multiple times, as well.”

“Does your report detail her punching form?” M— _Carol_ questions almost immediately after he’s finished, leaning forward as if to take a peek at said report—David stares blankly, covering the written report with his hands as something of an afterthought. 

“I—What?”

Carol merely shrugs, leaning casually back into her seat. “Like, did she have her fingers curled tightly, thumb in the correct position for maximum damage, all that?”

“'Max-Maximum d- _damage_ '?” David sputters, eyes practically bulging out of his head. 

Natasha lips twitch. “I think what my wife _means_ , is that—"

“Oh, no, your wife _knows_ what your wife means."

Natasha sucks in her lips, clearly trying not to laugh; David just gapes and mentally drafts his resignation (a thought that’s never appeared so undeniably _tempting_ as it does now). 

“Right,” Natasha concedes, shooting her wife beside her a wry look before turning back to David with a placid expression. "But, we were _also_ wondering, is that child okay?”

David sighs. “His nose is broken, but beyond that, he appears to be relatively unharmed.”

Carol nods in satisfaction, leaning over to Natasha’s chair as she muses, “I’ve never been so proud.”

_What?_

Natasha rolls her eyes. “She broke a kid’s nose, honey.”

“Exactly.”

Natasha heaves a sigh, and the both of them turn back to face David with differing expressions—Carol’s being one of distinct contentment; Natasha’s somewhat exasperated, and maybe even the tiniest bit apologetic. 

Either way, David’s had enough—he needs to go home, cuddle snugly into Tom’s lanky pale arms with a glass (or a _bottle_ , more like) of Merlot, one of Enrique Granados’ Valses Poéticos playing smoothly in the background. 

Or, just, something that’s not this. 

Literally _anything_ that isn't this. 

“Okay, so, Yelena has detention for two weeks,” he rambles out, already standing to gather his things in a flurry of movement despite the curious look both women are currently sending his way. “And, um, I’d appreciate it if you told her to stop hitting people, yes?” He pauses for a second, but not nearly long enough to give them an opportunity to reply before he’s scrambling to continue packing up, his messenger’s bag slung haphazardly upon his shoulder, his desk an outright mess (one he tells himself he’ll get to tomorrow, but probably won’t until at least the end of the month) as he stumbles gracelessly over to the door. “It was, uh—It was great meeting the two of you; I’m sure you can see yourselves out?” He questions rapidly as he wrenches open the door, only stopping his speech for a split second before he’s barreling on: “Great. Thanks. Bye!”

He’s never walked-slash-run so fast in his life. 

He’s also never broken the speed limit so egregiously and on so many different occasions over the course of his 15-minute route home before, but, extenuating circumstances, he figured. 

David Woodard was a simple man—a simple man who needed to resign, _immediately_ , before he was faced with Yelena Danvers and/or her terrifying lady parents ever again. 

David Woodard was a simple man—he always had been; what’s more, he’d always liked it, too.

He’s starting to think that maybe being a simple man living a simple life isn’t all that it's cracked up to be. 

➢ ➢ ➢ ➢ ➢ ➢ ➢ ➢ ➢ ➢ ➢ ➢ ➢ ➢ ➢ ➢ ➢

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts? comments? concerns?🤔
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


End file.
